How sad that I would see that face again - its alarming eyes warned me, as I set off to complain about what my own hands had written and my own voice had stated. But then, was I truly prepared? I even lied upon my wisdom, considering it strong enough. But its efficience was by no means real. God proved me wrong; much more were to come, and I barely thought about any of them. Back then, my only solid excuse was my unawareness, my unborn power of truly portraying a being that - not as I was thinking in those lonely times - was superior to me.
As I thought more of it, my senses failed to see what was obvious. Right before me stood a large series of feelings that continually admitted that I had been wrong. It was not him that I had judged wrong - it was my own character that was screaming with no chances to be heard.
This was somehow an end to the stupid and extravagant irony in my conduct. But scarcely had I believed this, that the face I had dreaded came up again; in front of me, one more time, it seemed more powerful. And I hid somehow from it, not seeing that the face was no longer gazing upon me; it was searching for new victims.
Its cruelties were insatiable, its feelings were nothing real. The kind of the fear for it was more of a willingness to get rid of it. A despicable being, I guess it was.
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